


One Hour

by days4daisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s10e17 Inside Man, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 10, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 18:19:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3946897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King of Hell wants to celebrate. He appears in the back seat of a familiar Continental.</p><p>--<br/>Takes place after Episode 10x17 - "Inside Man"</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hour

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely anon filled my Ask Box with post-10x17 Crowstiel thoughts. Unfortunately, the thoughts were so delicious that my Ask Box ate them. So I don't have the word-for-word Ask to share here :(
> 
> But, basically... Crowley visits Castiel to celebrate *_* A little coda to 10x17.

The King of Hell feels like himself for the first time in months. Energized! Restored! He is _bloody_ Crowley!

The King of Hell will go wherever he damn well pleases. Tonight, he chooses to appear in the back seat of a familiar Continental. 

The Scribe of God should not be shocked by his arrival. But mortality has made Metatron jumpy. He nearly springs from his skin at a flash of red eyes. 

"Are you kidding me!?” Metatron shouts.

Crowley regards Metatron with mild interest. “Partnered with the Fraggle again?” he asks.

Castiel's eyes never stray from the road. “Metatron is not a Muppet,” he mutters. “What do you want, Crowley?”

Crowley props his feet up in the back seat. He does not bother with his seat belt. Seat belts are beneath kings. 

“I want what I always want," he says. "A little fun, Castiel. After all, this has already been quite the productive evening-”

“I have no interest in hearing of your sexual conquests.”

“What? No.” Crowley shoots the angel a confused look. “You’ll be happy to know, I’ve made nice with Squirrel. And, better! I’ve cast out my nightmare of a mother.” He grins. “I am in a fantastic mood, pet. Thank you for asking.”

Metatron glowers at the driver. “Palling around with the King of Hell, Asstiel? Really?”

“Asstiel...” Crowley considers the name. “I like that.”

“This is a disgrace, even for y-oof!” Castiel's fist hits Metatron's jaw before he can finish the sentence. The Scribe slumps in his seat, handcuffed wrists jingling.

Crowley hums. “He’s human, I take it.”

Castiel pulls the car to the side of the road. With the Continental parked, both hands are free to fasten Metatron's cuffs to the steering wheel.  

This problem managed, Castiel gets out of the driver’s seat and moves to the back. With the car door slammed behind him, he is face-to-face with the King of Hell for the first time since Cain. 

The first thing Castiel does is push Crowley’s feet off the leather seat.

Crowley arches an intrigued brow. “Something is different about you."

“How was Dean?” Castiel asks.

“There's anger in you, Castiel… It’s quite the turn on-”

“How was Dean?” Castiel repeats, louder.

Crowley chuckles. There is no distracting the Winchesters’ guard dog when riled. Crowley has learned this lesson many times over. 

He glances out the window. “Not well,” he admits. “But reasonable. We talked.”

“About?”

“None of your business.” Crowley's glare dares him to argue.. 

Castiel is clearly not satisfied with the answer. But the tension sinks from his shoulders. A fight is not in the angel’s plans, apparently.

With Castiel’s temper reigned in, Crowley ventures into other matters. “Care to explain why this shaggy beast is riding shotgun in your scrap heap?”

“No.”

In a more violent mood, Crowley would be riled by Castiel’s difficulty. But Crowley is too high off the night’s events to fall into petty arguments. He has more pressing interests. 

But, first thing’s first. They need to be rid of this monstrosity of a car.

“Why not stash the dwarf downstairs for awhile?” Crowley suggests. “I’m in a gaming mood, and this junk pile is not fit for the occasion.”

“I can’t afford distractions right now, Crowley,” Castiel mutters.

Crowley is not deterred. The angel cannot afford distractions. But he _can_ be distracted. Crowley is more than happy to take this invitation.

“Give me one hour.” At Castiel’s displeased look, Crowley turns up the charm. “Come now, Cas. How often does one clip the Scribe of God’s wings? It seems you have some celebrating of your own to do.”

“Crowley-”

“Castiel.” Crowley’s eyes darken. 

Castiel regards him in silence. After a moment, he glances at the passenger seat. Metatron has not moved. 

“He comes too,” Castiel says.

Crowley would not dream of anything else. The Almighty’s pencil-pusher may be powerless now. But Crowley will enjoy housing the little weasel in Hell, if only for a short while. “I’ll ready my most luxe cell,” he says.

“And the car.”

This, Crowley does not like. He scowls at the interior of the vehicle. “You’re joking,” he mutters. “No one in their right mind would jack this abomination.”

“And the car,” Castiel repeats. His glare leaves no room for compromise.

Crowley sighs. The car is a disgrace, worthy of the most spectacular demolition. 

...But he wants this hour. Badly.

“Fine,” Crowley grumbles. “My best and brightest will guard this nightmare. Not a scratch. Are we agreed?”

Castiel eyes Metatron’s unconscious body in the front seat. Apparently satisfied by the Scribe’s stillness, he slides over.

Crowley expects action. But Castiel’s rough hands are a surprise. He finds himself pinned to the door in seconds, straddled by strong thighs. Crowley groans under Castiel’s mouth before he can think to taunt the angel for his eagerness. 

He snaps his fingers. In a blink, they are in Crowley’s chambers, bodies knotted on Crowley’s bed.

Car and battered Scribe are locked out of sight. Crowley has no desire to look at them. Not with his business partner in this delectably strange mood.

Crowley smirks under Castiel’s mouth. “Not bad, eh?”

Castiel responds by kissing him again. He wrenches his arms back, shrugging off his coat and suit jacket. Crowley unbuttons Castiel’s shirt and yanks on his tie. 

With Castiel’s shirt open and tie hanging, Crowley grows impatient. He shoves until he succeeds in getting Castiel on his side. A wave of his hand removes his own garments. Less fun, perhaps, but more efficient. He only has one hour, after all.

Crowley curses under his breath when Castiel shoves him back down. His damned stolen grace is holding up well. 

Castiel grips Crowley’s jaw, forcing his head upward. He devours Crowley’s mouth with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. 

Crowley does not mind. He rakes a hand down Castiel’s chest and snags the other on Castiel’s rear. Fingers hook between his ass cheeks, digging into tender flesh. His grasp is hard enough to get a grunt out of the body above his. 

Crowley thinks this will be enough to get some of his control back. But Castiel is on his game today. He has a hand around Crowley’s cock before the demon can prepare. 

Castiel jerks hard. Crowley hisses and bucks into his fist. “Christ!” he grits. 

“Blasphemy,” Castiel mutters. His voice is so dark, so delicious, that Crowley licks his lips. He wishes he could taste that voice. But the mouth will have to do.

Always the helpful sort, Crowley lifts his hips. Castiel is hard already, grinding into his waist. 

“Whatever you did today?” Crowley furrows an incredulous brow. “Bloody hell, do it more often.”

Castiel answers with a smirk - a damned smirk! His blue eyes are sharp enough to break skin. 

“You have fifty minutes,” Castiel says.

Crowley fists a hand in Castiel’s hair and yanks him back down. 

The King of Hell is a model of efficiency. Much can be accomplished in fifty minutes.

*The End*


End file.
